Part 15 (2/2)
Leandro smiled; they returned as they had come, disturbing the player once more and resuming their seats at the table.
Roberto and f.a.n.n.y conversed in English.
”That fellow we made get up,” said Leandro, ”is the bully of this place.”
”What's his name?” asked f.a.n.n.y.
”El Valencia.”
The man they were speaking about, hearing his sobriquet mentioned, turned around and eyed Leandro; for a moment their glances crossed defiantly; Valencia turned his eyes away and continued playing. He was a strong man, about forty, with high cheek bones, reddish skin and a disagreeably sarcastic expression. Every once in a while he would cast a severe look at the group formed by f.a.n.n.y, Roberto and the other two.
”And that Valencia,--who is he?” asked the lady in a low voice.
”He's a mat maker by trade,” answered Leandro, raising his voice. ”A tramp that wheedles money out of low-lives; before he used to belong to the _pote_,--the kind that visit houses on Sundays, knock, and when they see n.o.body's home, stick their jimmy into the lock and zip!... But he hasn't the courage even for this, 'cause his liver is whiter than paper.”
”It would be curious to investigate,” said Roberto, ”just how far poverty has served as centre of gravity for the degradation of these men.”
”And how about that white-bearded old fellow at his side?” asked f.a.n.n.y.
”He's one of those apostles that cure with water. They say he's a wise old fellow.... He has a cross on his tongue. But I believe he painted it there himself.”
”And that other woman there?”
”That's La Paloma, Valencia's mistress.”
”Prost.i.tute?” asked the lady.
”For at least forty years,” answered Leandro with a laugh.
They all looked closely at Paloma; she had a huge, soft face, with pouches of violet skin, and a timid look as of a humble beast; she represented at least forty years of prost.i.tution and all its concomitant ills; forty years of nights spent in the open, lurking about barracks, sleeping in suburban shanties and the most repulsive lodgings.
Among the women there was also a gypsy who, from time to time, would get up and walk across the tavern with a saucy strut.
Leandro ordered some gla.s.ses of whiskey; but it was so bad that n.o.body could drink it.
”Hey, you,” called Leandro to the gipsy, offering her the gla.s.s. ”Want a drink?”
”No.”
The gypsy placed her hands upon the table,--a pair of stubby, wrinkled hands incrusted with dirt.
”Who are these gumps?” she asked Leandro.
”Friends of mine. Will you drink or not?” and he offered her the gla.s.s again.
”No.”
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